Happy first Stem Cell Transplant Day to me

I'll go to your party, you'll come to mine

We've given up cigarettes, we've given up wine

We've given up caffeine and sworn off desserts

We're too good to be happy, too straight to be sad

So just blow out the candles, Happy Birthday

Carly Simon

Generally my journey through cancer bounces along, day in and day out, with emotional upheaval kept to a minimum. Physically? Sure, there are good days and bad days. Emotionally, not so much.

Still, there are some dates- Christmas, New Year's, my wedding anniversary, my children and grandchildren's birthdays, for example- that make me wonder, “Is this the last one of these I'll see?” I don't feel the same about... oh... your birthday, let's say, or Arbor Day. Likewise Groundhog Day and Speak Like a Pirate Day don't even register. Easter is important, but because of it's shifting nature, it's hard to think about the next one when you couldn't say with much confidence when the next one would be.

I know I've said this before, but there's no reason to feel sad or maudlin when I share these sorts of thoughts. Yes, we're further down the road now and there's much more wear and tear on my system, so I can see where it might not be something you feel comfortable hearing about. It certainly doesn't leave me wanting to do the happy dance. But here's the thing: I can't afford to be maudlin. I don't have the luxury of being coy about something like this, especially at times like now when I am getting my butt kicked by my illness on an almost daily basis.

I have to look every thought, every situation, right in the proverbial eye and deal with it. You keep telling me how brave I am, and I'm still not sure about that. But, I will also tell you that I am not a big enough coward, I am not afraid enough, to keep shoving difficult, painful thoughts out of my head just because they're difficult or painful.

There are too many other things in my life that I just can't deal with right now, so I don't. We have two printers for our computers and neither of them works. I just don't have the energy to change that. I actually sent my friend Peters a handwritten note the other day. Hand...written...in cursive and everything. But honestly, being unable to print things is an inconvenience. These other things are, quite literally, life and death.

We all know that no one gets out of here alive. No one. Like you, I've known that for a long, long time. However, until I got sick, my attitude was always, “Yeah. Sure. But I ain't going anywhere for a long time.” And that might still be the case, right? Maybe the only real difference between you and me is that I know what is most likely to be my cause of death.

This current bout of thinking is brought to you by my birthday, which I celebrated this week. Sixty-six; one six short of the mark of the beast. I was actually born on an Easter Sunday, so maybe, for this one year only, there is some added irony in that.

Birthdays, in recent memory at least, have always struck me in the same manner as New Year's Eve. A lot of hype over what is, really, just one more day. Don't get me wrong. I love getting presents as much as the next guy, but couldn't we just get a couple of extra presents at Christmas time in honor of the fact that we will soon be turning another year older?

Or, maybe a National Present Day. Everybody gets their presents on the same day, once a year. That way we could have all the hoopla, without any of the angst. The countdown- only three more shopping days until National Present Day- without the introspection- another year gone and I still haven't learned to deal any better with my emotional issues.

I guess the one thing I could say about birthdays at this point is that I certainly hope to have another one, and possibly more. But from where I sit, at least one more would be cool.

Then there's always this to consider: my entire medical team tells me to look at May 6, the day of my stem cell transplant, as the first day of the rest of my life, making it another birthday, of sorts.

Now, frankly, celebrating that makes so much more sense. First off, I had something to do with it. My birth birth, I was just there about nine months after my parents... well, when they... I don't want to talk about that. Suffice to say, I didn't have anything to do with it.

The stem cell transplant, though... Sheri and I were involved in determining that date right from the start. Actually, though, we didn't set the date for the transplant so much as we set the date to begin the lengthy, but arduous process that ended in the transplant itself.

So, thinking about it all, I guess I can stop pretending that my birthday means anything to me, and embrace Stem Cell Transplant Day as a true cause for celebration.

Oh, wait. I realize that puts you in a difficult position... I mean, what kind of present do you get someone for their Stem Cell Transplant Day? Especially the first pne? Wow. I guess I didn't think the whole thing through, in terms of how you would be affected. Hmmm. You know what, I'm just going to go out on a limb and say that you can't go wrong with cash.

There are a variety of versions of the story that gives this blog its name. The pony is the constant in all of them. A man is on his way to a party when he comes across a young boy shoveling ass over tea kettle at an enormous mountain of manure. The man asks the child if he wouldn't rather go with him to the party than shovel all that poop. The kid says, “No way man. With all that poop... there must be a pony in there somewhere

A fistful of dollars

I'm sure you've noticed there are times in my writing when I dance around using real names- of people, places and/or things.

When I was writing about my encounter with a fellow multiple myeloma sufferer for last week's column, I felt I needed to be especially careful. Not for just the usual reason- that he didn't ask to be part of it. He shared some serious concerns and observations with me that I don't think he would share with just anybody.

I have become so open about my disease, and in fact, my life in general, that I forget people like to keep some things to themselves. Really. I think they do. Right? I mean... Don't you?

It isn't like with my friend Peters, though. When I wrote “Peters (not his real name),” I was stating a fact. When I first knew him it was part of the name he used when he was on the air at the same radio station I worked at. No subterfuge necessary.

Most of the time, working around names is not that hard. It's usually a privacy issue more than anything. But this week I'm faced with a doozy. I think the other person might be embarrassed, so I want to be careful. Even trying to describe what happened is tricky because it gives a lot of clues.

See, if I wrote, for example, that the conversation took place in a building where you could pretty much ignore the advice “neither a borrower nor a lender be,” you might guess- library. That would be correct. What about a place where there are constant comings and goings and people try carry no more of a burden than absolutely necessary? Airport, right? Oblique baggage reference and all.

So, when I was transacting some business the other day and the person I was dealing with said something that actually left me at a loss for words, I knew I had to work out some way of using the incident, but without getting anyone in trouble. C'mon, Jim Arnold was at a loss for words??? How am I going to let that go? It's almost like an eclipse- you'd have to view it through a cardboard telescope, otherwise seeing me without a snappy comeback might actually hurt your eyes. Brothers and sisters- I needed to tell the story.

So I walked into... this establishment and asked the... person... who was working there a money question. Let me say right off that it wasn't a bank. No. Nuh uh. Not a bank. It was another money-type of place. Yeah. Another place where money would change hands. Right. And it wasn't Western Union. You can still make money transactions at WU, I think, but that's not what or where I was doing this particular transaction.

There I was, then, not at a bank and not at Western Union... Oh, it wasn't a bottle deposit return place either. I mean, I wasn't picking up the story from when the cans and bottles had already been handed over by me which would allow us to start talking about money. Right. Not a bank, not a Western Union, not a bottle deposit return place. Got it? Clear?

I needed this person at this place to give me 40 one-dollar bills. Not for nothing, mind you. I handed over two $20 bills and made my request.

“What are you going to do with 40 one dollar bills?” the person asked.

I was taken aback, because, as I pointed out in my answer, “That isn't really any of your business, is it?”

We both smiled, since we were apparently enjoying a nice piece of verbal jousting, badinage, if you will. Notice, though, I was surprised, but not speechless. That came next.

“Oh, I know, You're going to...” and the person pantomimed what could only be taken to as a reference to sticking dollar bills in a key portion of an exotic dancer's costume. I'm not kidding. This person was, jokingly, I think, suggesting I would take my dollar bills and reward a st... str... strip... A... you know.

First let me say this: I have no problems with strippers. I was friends with a female stripper once who used a boa constrictor in her act who was surprised when her husband left because he couldn't stand the snake crawling into bed with them at night, looking for warmth.

For a time, I also lived below a male stripper. My teen-age daughters really enjoyed that one. I lived in the basement and any time they heard his upstairs door close they would climb all over each other and anything else to get a glimpse of this guy out the window.

So. Strippers? Good people. I think I was left speechless because I couldn't imagine what in my demeanor would suggest that even watching exotic dancers would be something I would do, never mind going to a non-bank, non-WU, non-bottle deposit place to gather one dollar bills to stick in their- let's call that what it is- underwear.

Admittedly, I don't know what such a person would look like, but I knew they wouldn't look like me. If the person had called me a jerk, a goof, a creep (although in some circles, I suppose that's what they were calling me), or a potato head, I would have had a snappy retort.

I admit to occasionally playing the cancer card when I want something, but this may have been the dumbest use of any of the get-out-of-jail variety of cards ever when I said, “I'm very ill. I wouldn't do that.”

And let me just say that the whole incident was funny. I wasn't offended, but amused. But it was sort of like a “Nobody puts baby in the corner” moment. “Nobody leaves Jim Arnold speechless. Nobody.” Well, now it has to be “almost no one leaves Jim Arnold speechless.” So kudos to you, nameless person in an unidentified location. Kudos to you.

There are a variety of versions of the story that gives this blog its name. The pony is the constant in all of them. A man is on his way to a party when he comes across a young boy shoveling ass over tea kettle at an enormous mountain of manure. The man asks the child if he wouldn't rather go with him to the party than shovel all that poop. The kid says, “No way man. With all that poop... there must be a pony in there somewhere

A tale of two pities

My old friend multiple myeloma and I crossed paths a couple of times this week.

First, I lost another friend to the disease. She was a sweet woman, mom of friends of ours, and became my own friend in the end. I was able to meet her a couple of times and we were able to talk about multiple myeloma and what a dastardly disease it is. Dolly had it for four years and in the end it just seemed to wear her out. She couldn't get relief from the pain and stay active in any way, so her doctor and family made her as comfortable as possible until she passed away.

The second instance began with someone approaching me in the grocery store and saying, “You must be Jim Arnold.” Now, if you read my column last week, you can see why there might have been a time when I answered that question with greater caution than I do now. When I worked in newspapers, I was never sure whom I may have upset, so I always wanted to get some sense of why they wanted to know.

Ever quick, with handy rejoinders to spare, I would usually ask, “Why do you want to know?” Quick, right? Solid? No doubt. This was usually followed by some disjointed blah, blah, blah and we'd go from there, for good or ill. So, “Are you Jim Arnold?” Maybe. Why do you want to know?

Nowadays, people usually link me to this column and want to talk about that. And, since my picture is run with the piece each week, admitting who I am seems like the only way to go.

As it turns out, it was a friend, a fellow multiple myeloma sufferer. I didn't recognize him because- surprise- we had never actually met, but communicated online and through email. He knew me from the aforementioned photo with the column.

“You must be Jim Arnold. I'm ...”

“Oh, yeah. Great to see you.” I can be pleasant, you know. I can actually, albeit only occasionally, craft the socially correct response in a social situation.

Anyway, there we were in the baking aisle, and we started talking. It was funny to be in the middle of the store, sort of blocking the aisle a little bit, having a conversation with someone. Just like I see people doing in the store all the time. Wow.

I suppose anyone seeing us, and having to maneuver past us to get their items, would assume we were talking sports, probably college basketball, given the time of year. We weren't, though, we were talking about multiple myeloma.

After all, in theory, one shouldn't run into too many people who have it that you can talk with. It affects just 6.1 per 100,000 people in the U.S., and constitutes only 1% of all cancers. We need to take every talking chance we get.

So, there we were, talking about the disease. I had come to know him when he sent me an email about his condition, which had, at the time, just become active. He wondered if I would be willing to talk with him about it, which of course, I was, and did.

Amongst the flour, the chips of many flavors and a wide variety of decorating doo dads, we compared where we were in our treatments. He's part of a trial study comparing, I think, people who have stem cell transplants early in their treatment, as opposed to those who wait until a more conventional time. But, that is his story to tell, or not.

As we stood there, with people walking around us filling their baking needs, we ended up focusing on the crux of the matter: both of us are doing quite well, right now, my other issues not withstanding. But with multiple myeloma, more than with most cancers I would suppose, we know it's going to come back at some point. Yeah, it can go into what we describe as remission, but, since it's incurable, it is, almost by definition, going to come back. What do you do with something like that? Good question.

I initially imagined it would be on my mind constantly. Each month as I went to have blood work done and my bone density treatment applied, I figured I would be worried right up till the moment my blood work results were declared positive.

It hasn't turned out that way. Be it God, my family, my friends, my big brain... I hardly ever think about the outcome, even when I'm having my blood work done. I know. It doesn't seem possible, right? I can't tell you why I'm not consumed by it, I can only tell you that I'm not.

My friend struggles with it much more. Partly, I'm sure, because he hasn't been living with the whole idea as long as I have. His worries now are exactly what I thought my worries would always be. Again, though, that's part of his story to tell. Our bumping into each other in the store, though, brought me back to a place I had been- one where I thought I would still be living, and gave me the chance to consider what has happened.

My friend from the grocery store, my late friend Dolly, all of the other 6.1 per 100,000 and I have to come to grips with multiple myeloma in general, and, perhaps, this aspect of it more than any other. And despite all the support we have, at 3 am., when we are most alone and vulnerable, that's when we need to find something that works... for each of us. I can't do it for them and they can't do it for me.

That's why I have to take advantage of running into friends in the grocery store, or receiving a note or email from someone. What we share at those times makes the darkness at 3 am. less dark, less foreboding. And maybe, just maybe, we can help each other put our strategies in place to come to grips with our sneaky little disease.

There are a variety of versions of the story that gives this blog its name. The pony is the constant in all of them. A man is on his way to a party when he comes across a young boy shoveling ass over tea kettle at an enormous mountain of manure. The man asks the child if he wouldn't rather go with him to the party than shovel all that poop. The kid says, “No way man. With all that poop... there must be a pony in there somewhere

You don't know Jack (not his real name)

I'm back... again. Need proof? Two drunks walk into a bar. You'd think the second one would have ducked. Bam! I take my wife everywhere,,, but she keeps finding her way back. Yes!

Hmmm. Do you go to read my column each week wondering, “Gawd. I wonder what sort of mood he's in today. I hope it isn't like when he found out he had two spleens. We're still dealing with the fallout from that one.”

Actually, I've decided, for me at least, because I read these columns too, you know, it's like the old television show, “Maverick.” Growing up as a kid in Scotland, I always loved that show, still do as a matter of fact. But I always liked the ones with James Garner just a little bit more. Probably because they usually (Tom) mixed in some humor. Cheyenne, The Lawman, Bronco and most of the other Warner Brothers westerns that dominated TV at the time were many things- funny wasn't really one of them.

So, I was looking at MSN the other day and a picture of presidential hopeful Ted Cruz caught my eye. He had his arms spread out in a supplicating gesture and, for whatever reason, it reminded me of the comedian who said, “My mother always liked to encourage me, and one of her favorite things to say was that anyone could grow up to be president. I look around and see that she was right.”

But, I have no wish to get political, I have enough to deal with. It just reminded me of an incident in my young newspaper editor days where I came close to being put in jail for calling a town justice by his first name. Really. And his first name was jackass, or poophead or anything. It was Jack (not his real name)..

First a question. Do you think you've spent more time this long, lousy winter reminiscing than usual? I mean, what else could you do, right? It was just soooo cold. Sure, it didn't deter ice fishermen, as far as I could see. But, c'mon, ice fishermen? Is that how you want to measure the severity of winter? Don't get me wrong, plenty of our friends are ice fishermen. Love 'em, but the fact that they have to cut a hole in the “water” before they can even start? Enough said.

Anyway, I had an instant recall- I don't even think it was reminiscing- when I saw that photo of Ted Cruz.

About 40 years ago, shortly after the unceremonious end of my career as a rock and roll disc jockey, and just as my career in journalism was off to a shaky start, I was in the town hall of one of the municipalities I covered when one of the town justices came up to me, took me by the arm (a gesture I truly hate), pulled me to one side and confidentially told me, “I'm not running for town supervisor this fall.”

I was underwhelmed. The election was months away and over 30, 000 other people weren't running for supervisor either, so I said, “Thanks, Jack,” and that was the last I thought of it until about two months later.

I was right in the heart of the town hall, surrounded by the assessors office, tax collector and and town clerk offices, and the police department, at a sort of four way intersection.

Jack comes running- yes, running- at me and demands to know why I didn't put his announcement in the paper. I gave him the too early-30,000 people argument and he started yelling, screaming and spitting on me.

His arguments started with, “Who do you think you are,” never a good start in my experience, hit on how young I was (24-ish), and how little I knew (OK, so he got that one right). And then it got nasty (ha ha). I don't know if he'd gone a little crazy, or anything, but, if that wasn't crazy, then crazy is something I never want to see.

So, I'm standing there and he's yelling, spitting, insulting me, and I noticed most of the people around us, though pretending to still be working, were all leaning their heads in our direction. I took it for a while, and as he started to repeat himself, I tried to wrap up the conversation.

“Look, Jack...” And that's as far as I got.

“That's another thing,” he screamed (screamed!). “From now on that's Justice Nothisrealname to you.” Well, that seemed to have brought us to the last stop on the crazy train, so I simply said, “Look, Jack,” admittedly curious as to what would happen next.

“You're under arrest.” As God is my witness, those were the next words out of his mouth. “You're under arrest.” I said the obvious: “For what?”

“Harassing a town justice, “ Jack said, and ran off to get the chief of police. When they got back, I said what I thought was the new obvious: “Go ahead. Arrest me. Just know that my one phone call will be to our photographer to have him come out and take a picture of me raking my tin cup across the iron bars of my cell.”

No arrests were made and it sort of fizzled out after that, sadly. Years letter Jack was in the news for being involved in some malfeasance involving thousands of dollars in court funds.

I hadn't thought about that incident in years, believe it or not, but I wouldn't put it in the book as a cancer-inspired recall or even the result of becoming older. I just think crazy has a long shelf life and this had been sitting there, waiting to be dragged out and since everything around it was frozen shut, out it came. Wow, huh?

There are a variety of versions of the story that gives this blog its name. The pony is the constant in all of them. A man is on his way to a party when he comes across a young boy shoveling ass over tea kettle at an enormous mountain of manure. The man asks the child if he wouldn't rather go with him to the party than shovel all that poop. The kid says, “No way man. With all that poop... there must be a pony in there somewhere

No one told me it would be like this

The moon has a face
And it smiles on the lake
And causes the ripples in Time
I'm lucky to be here
With someone I like
Who maketh my spirit to shine

Warren Zevon

Does anyone have a positive thought they could spare? Anyone? Anyone? Bueller? Seriously. I'm at the Jack and the Beanstalk stage of need. I'd happily exchange the family cow, or 21st Century equivalent, for some magic beans, or in this case, an uplifting notion.

The subject this time was supposed to be how this journey through cancer changed considerably when people decided it was okay to... to... what? Not make fun, I guess, but to know if they wanted to make a joke at my expense, that was okay with me. Not only okay, but... well, fun.

See, as people first came to know I had cancer, it quickly became obvious that most really didn't know what to say; how to react. I think most of my friends were afraid of saying the wrong thing. No matter how hard I tried to make it clear that there was no “wrong thing,” their discomfort remained obvious. Some were so unsure what to do, they started avoiding me, or at least avoiding talking to me. I can understand why people would want to avoid me, but not for that reason. Bummer.

As time has moved along, and they've come to see my death isn't imminent, certainly no more so than it was before I got sick, we've been able to get back to more of the give and take, “So's your mother” sort of thing.

The trouble with writing about it is that the humor around my illness is normally situational. It's not jokes, per se, but joint attempts to fight fear with fun.

On top of that, anytime you try to write about humor, it invariably comes out convoluted and/or boring. There's also the argument to be made that cancer is no laughing matter. I think you know where I stand on that one, brothers and sisters.

As it turned out, I had to turn my pondering on this subject off to deal with how sick I've been in the last few days. How sick? Real sick. Wanting to curl into a ball... sick.

My go-to, non-oncologist physician, whose main goal is to manage my pain, has had to make changes to some of my medications and it set off a sickapalooza throughout my system., complete with a soundtrack by P!nk (or Pink, I guess); if a soundtrack can be the same two songs running through my head over and over for three days and counting.

The symptoms are pretty flu-like. Nausea (Do we remember how much Jim hates nausea? Yeah. That's right. A lot.), chills, cold sweats, hot flashes, no appetite and so on and so on an scooby dooby do. Beyond crappy, in other words... waaay beyond. You can't even see crappy from where I am.

Look, I didn't sign up for this. Cancer? Sure. Bring it on. After the initial surprise, I'm there. I'm fighting. But flu-like symptoms for days? Being sick enough to want my mommie? Nah. Not acceptable. Uh uh. No one told me it would be like this.

Still, lying in bed, maybe feeling a little sorry for myself, definitely feeling terribly ill, I think of my friend Cindy. She, too, had a stem cell transplant, though her cells came from a man in Germany whereas we were able to use my own. She passed away in December having put up an amazing fight against her type of leukemia, a variety of infections and/or who only knows what else.

In all the time I knew her, her courage and strength were obvious. She was so sick, but she stayed amazingly positive.

We had talked a lot about the “nasty bits” around cancer and stem cell operations. It helped both of us to be stronger, I think. It certainly did me. But being sick in the manner I have been these past few days has made my admiration for her grow even stronger. I hate being nauseous. I hate having the chills. I hate having to sit, or lie, still waiting to see if I'm going to throw up or not. I hate it!

But, when Mr. Totally Self-Absorbed managed to be less so for a moment, I realized that Cindy dealt with all that and so much more while in an isolated hospital room, with everyone who came to her room wearing gloves and a mask, with limited access to her husband, cats and everything else she loved, and endless nights with only her thoughts for company.

At least, as sick as I've felt, Sheri was almost always there, always when it mattered. Our loving kitten Kenzie was always there to jump up on me to seek her own comfort, reducing my physical sense of well being, perhaps, but adding so much love and joy to my heart.

I guess I won't be needing your positive thoughts after all, though I'd be happy to have them. I just need to remember to be grateful for all that I've been given and that there are so many people who haven't had the good fortune I've had.

There are a variety of versions of the story that gives this blog its name. The pony is the constant in all of them. A man is on his way to a party when he comes across a young boy shoveling ass over tea kettle at an enormous mountain of manure. The man asks the child if he wouldn't rather go with him to the party than shovel all that poop. The kid says, “No way man. With all that poop... there must be a pony in there somewhere.”

Does this check smell right to you?

Paranoia strikes deep in the heartland
But I think it's all overdone
Exaggerating this and exaggerating that
They don't have no fun

Paul Simon

When I was in my early 20s, writing about age was easy. I was shallow enough, and sure that I knew everything, so- easy peasy. As long as Hallmark produced greeting cards and Rod McKuen kept churning out poetry. I could insert observations on aging in anything I was working on.

Now, I'd have to say, “Not so much.”

Look, I see people who use their age as an excuse so often, that it leaves me with the feeling that they can't wait to get old. Truly. As I listen to them, I get the sense that it's just another way to give up. Quit the fight. I have always tried to avoid age as an excuse, unless it was, you know, something I really didn't want to do.

“Honey, I'd love to clear the driveway, especially since temperatures are in those single digits I enjoy so much. But, I'm not as young as I used to be. I wouldn't want to break something and have to have you take care of me,,, even more than you do... which is a lot... and which I sure do appreciate... and as long as I have your attention, could you get me another cup of coffee? I'd get it myself, but, my knees, you know...”

Other than that, I haven't wanted to rush the aging process since I reached the mark for “You have to be this tall to take this ride.”

But as we've grown older, so have many of our friends and we all end up being aware of our age, comparing aches and pains and bemoaning true limitations. You also have a new view of how paranoia strikes deep in the heartland. For instance...

The other day I got a call from my credit union. I love my credit union. They actually look out for me, and help me manage my accounts when I don't even know I need help.

This time, the charming woman on the credit union end of the phone, after identifying herself and confirming who I was, asked, “Did you deposit a check here earlier this week?”

“Why, yes I did. Is there a problem?”

“No. Not really. It's just that the girls (?!) were looking at it and thought it looked... funny. They hadn't seen a check like it before and were just a little concerned.”

This is what I mean about my credit union. Something didn't seem right and they called to ask.

“It's fine. It's money from a grant we receive to help us pay our medical expenses. It's been a life saver for us. And you have actually cashed a number of them for us already.”

“So no one asked you to send any money, then?”

“Nope. It was strictly a very generous thing for them to do.”

“Well, that's good. We just don't want any of our customers being taken advantage of.”

“Thanks for checking.” I always like to finish credit union calls with a little banking humor. Checking. Get it?

A couple of hours later, though, I started to think about what the call had really been about. I know it was positive, and it was certainly a terrific thing for them to do, but... “We don't want any of our customers to be taken advantage of...” What? Wait. Hold on. I've been banking with this company a long time and no one has ever called to be sure I wasn't being taken advantage of. Is that sentence actually saying, “We don't want any of our older customers to be taken advantage of.”

So was she really asking if I had sent any money to a Nigerian prince so they could release my family's long, lost gazillions in gold to me? Had I been offered stock in a Somalian diamond mine? Paranoia can be an investment strategy, you know. Regardless, I decided it was just a nice thing to do. Thank you credit union!

In a somewhat related matter, many of my friends, from every age group, have been voicing their concern about forgetting things. They are so worried about having Alzheimer's, which seems like it can strike at virtually any age, that any type of forgetting upsets them terribly. To our general discredit, we tend to try to joke it away, probably because we don't want to look at our own fear around the issue.

My mother lived to be 91 and virtually every day she did at least one crossword puzzle. She maintained it helped her stay mentally sharp. Since she certainly was, I thought I'd try something similar.

I don't like crossword puzzles, so I got a book of “Jumbles” to help keep me sharp. You know “Jumbles,” right? You straighten out four words, take designated letters from each answer, then use then use those to solve an illustrated puzzle, with puns looming large in the solutions.

I like doing those. But, here's the thing. I have put my Jumble book somewhere “safe” and I can't find it. I'm not kidding. I've looked in all the usual places, but that's how I know I put it somewhere safe. Safe is like the place where elephants go to die. It may or may not actually exist, but if it does, a whole lot of my stuff is there waiting for me.

There are a variety of versions of the story that gives this blog its name. The pony is the constant in all of them. A man is on his way to a party when he comes across a young boy shoveling ass over tea kettle at an enormous mountain of manure. The man asks the child if he wouldn't rather go with him to the party than shovel all that poop. The kid says, “No way man. With all that poop... there must be a pony in there somewhere.”

We all need a faithful companion

I was awakened on a recent morning by this terrible pain in my stomach. That, in itself, was disappointing because we've been working on adjusting my medications and we seemed to have been making some progress in the past few days. I slept longer than I normally do, though, and I think that had an impact on the effectiveness of my medicine.

On top of that, when I wake up at a different time than usual, I can feel frazzled, and that's an invitation to the unnamed, but deep, fear I sometimes experience to come and join the party. It's almost paralyzing, made the more upsetting because I have no idea what causes it or what it is about. I think I'll be going to a “special” (wink, wink, nudge nudge) doctor to talk about that.

Once upon a time, it happened rarely and was easily ignored. Now, it's becoming more and more common and it can't be ignored. I also can't really do anything about it because... Hello. Unnamed. Unknowable.

Those are hard to get out of bed days, you bet. I'm afraid to get up because... Hello. Unnamed. Unknowable. So, I lay there and feel an almost physical presence keeping me in place. I'm only aware of how tense I've been when I finally shift position and find my knees aching, my hands cramping and a big knot at the back of my neck because I've been locked and loaded the whole time.

And this, brothers and sisters, is where you come in. When I say I couldn't fight this cancer the way I have without you, these are the times when it is truer than true. As I lay there, with fear marching to “Night at Bald Mountain” - as seen in the fabulously popular movie, “The Wizard of Oz- with none of the fun and all of the menace of the original piece of music, I, frankly, don't have the power to reach out: not to my wife, who is generally nearby; not to my children, who are only a phone call away and the cell phone is right there; not to all the supportive friends I see on a regular basis.

I have to go with what I've got on hand, which is mostly a head full of fearful nonsense I've managed to convince myself actually means something. But, I've also got things you have told me, done for me, given me and they are right there with me as well.

I used to be big on drama. BIG on DRAMA. If there wasn't any in my life, I would work hard to create some. With drama, comes exaggeration and the need to make things seem “more” than they are/were. It's something I now constantly guard against. So, when I say my fight against this fear begins with the knowledge that thousands of prayers have been said on my behalf, you need to know I am not selfishly inflating that number. There have been that many and it has made a huge difference.

This leads me to one of the women's circles at the Oxford United Methodist Church, Oxford, PA, where my son-in-law Mark is the pastor and my daughter Jennifer helps keep the women in a circle (he he). They not only prayed for me, they knit me a prayer shawl, the weight and warmth of which brings me great comfort.

A co-worker and her family gave me a wonderfully heavy blanket with a great texture. Comfort comes from the weight and the texture and, this winter especially, the heat it provides.

You have given me countless talismen/talismans? to carry with me offering messages of comfort, hope, faith. Truth is, if I carried them all at once, I would list to one side. I do keep them all in the same drawer, though, so that I see them every morning as I get ready to leave the house.

In the same drawer, I also keep a rosary. I am not now, nor have I ever been, Catholic, and readily admit that my knowledge of the rosary comes from movies, television and books where people seem to use it to help them with their prayers, usually, popular culture tells us, when the person saying the rosary is in some sort of trouble. I have no doubt it provides comfort. But consider this: the guy I know gave me, not only a rosary, but his mother's rosary, and told me to carry it with me all the time. I tried to refuse. It was his mother's rosary, after all, and I can't begin to imagine how important that would have been to him.

Still, he wanted me to have it, so I took it. I carry it with me every day, receiving calm from the feel of it in my pocket.

I have received cards, letters, emails, phone calls, encouragement from people I don't know, but who have been reading what I've been writing; been picking up what I've been laying down, if you will. Thanks.

My younger daughter Alison and a group of her friends get together for breakfast on Friday mornings during the school year. They are all moms with children in the same elementary school. Unbeknownst to Alison, they got a card that represented a string of balloons, and each of them wrote a message of hope and encouragement to me on a separate balloon. They didn't want Alison to know because they wanted me to see it was their idea, generated by how they felt about my situation, and not just because Alison was my daughter.

They sent it to me while I was in the hospital for my stem cell transplant. Now, there are rules about what you can put on hospital room walls and how you can put it on there (no tape, for example). The nurse in charge when the card arrived (note- she was neither of the ones I dropped my pants in front of) was not such a big rules follower. I don't think she broke any, but there were some curved rules by the time she was done. I didn't used to be a “cheer him up with balloons” kind of guy, but the joy that card gave me made me a balloon believer and a homecoming queen (trivia fans?).

Then this week I got a call from a reader who wanted to send me something to show how much she appreciated my writing. She had been a cancer survivor for eight years and, since her initial treatment had been radiation and not chemo, she sent me this hat that, on the front, said “Chemo Sabe.” OMG. As a fan of truth and goodness as unashamedly brought to the (mostly) black and white television screen by the Lone Ranger and his faithful Indian (?) Native American (?) companion Tonto, it struck a chord somewhere deep. She'd had it for eight years and knew the right person would come along to share it with and, after all that time, she felt the right person was me.

Man, I got a great life!

There are a variety of versions of the story that gives this blog its name. The pony is the constant in all of them. A man is on his way to a party when he comes across a young boy shoveling ass over tea kettle at an enormous mountain of manure. The man asks the child if he wouldn't rather go with him to the party than shovel all that poop. The kid says, “No way man. With all that poop... there must be a pony in there somewhere.”